


Five Times Percival Graves Gave Someone a Hug and One Time He Got a Hug Instead

by duckiesinaline



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, A little bit of angst, Gen, Hugs, Promise, are a'goin' around, but it all turns out alright in the end, i never thought i'd write a 5+1, life goes on - Freeform, more characters will be added as hugs are revealed!, yet here we are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-13
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-01-16 19:07:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12348822
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duckiesinaline/pseuds/duckiesinaline
Summary: What it says on the tin. With a few happy - sometimes sad, sometimes bitter, but mostly happy - tears along the way. Kinda like life. Or a box of chocolates, I guess.Or - life goes on, and Graves seems to find peace mostly by helping everyone else out with theirs before someone helps him out with his.





	1. The First

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bluebeholder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebeholder/gifts).



> So, I lied! I needed to write one more thing before I jumped back to The Worst and the Best. 
> 
> For the fabulous and inspirational bluebeholder, who requested a hug on their birthday. So of course I'ma gonna deliver hugs. Lots of hugs. Cuz Percy really gets around.
> 
> And now there's a Chinese translation of this! <3 [翻译】五次PG给了别人一个拥抱，一次他得到了一个抱抱 ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15109670/chapters/35036213)

Percival Graves stared at the neat rows of plump, golden pastries, which seemed to return the favor with dozens of black currant eyes. Even more unnerving than their ability to do so was how they, along with the handfuls of other confectioneries and baked goods arrayed upon the shelves, all bore a remarkable resemblance to creatures that appeared variously under MACUSA headings of “controlled”, “restricted”, and “illegal”.

“Anything catch your fancy?”

Graves spared a glance for the no-maj baker - rotund, amiable, a guileless smile beneath a neatly trimmed mustache - and looked back at the array of potential misdemeanors. “These are ... quite ingenious.”

“Yeah,” the baker rocked back on his heels with an abashed shrug. “They sometimes come to me in dreams. Always thought I didn’t have enough brains to imagine up anything like this, but I guess I just hadta get out of the cannery for a bit - “ He trailed off, gaze caught by something through the shop windows. And while Graves had thought the man’s smile friendly enough before, now the no-maj lit up bright as Broadway as he hurried over to the door, opening it just before someone could reach for the latch.

“Oh!” Queenie Goldstein gasped, and there on her face was the same incandescent delight as she smiled back, all glowing golden curls and pink lipstick, and placed a gloved hand into the one the no-maj had extended. “Jacob - “

“Jacob Kowalski.”

Queenie jumped, eyes flying wide as they whipped toward Graves. He turned to face them both, his cane making a single, soft click upon the floor. “This is Jacob Kowalski.”

The no-maj looked from Graves to the pale-faced fear that had frozen Queenie into silence, and stepped in between them with shoulders set. “Yeah, I am, what’s it to you?”

Graves’ eyes fell pointedly on their still-joined hands, now tucked half-behind the man, and then raised it to meet Queenie’s gaze. “Maybe nothing. If you would, Miss Goldstein ... a word, please?” He tipped his head toward the door.

“She doesn’t have to go anywhere with you, Mister - “ Jacob immediately puffed.

“Jacob, Jacob, honey, it’s okay,” Queenie murmured as she blindly patted his arm. Graves layered the Occlumency he couldn’t seem to ever let go of nowadays even deeper, and she winced before finally dropping her gaze.

“What, is he a relative? A brother, an uncle?” Jacob muttered over his shoulder, and Graves snorted outright.

Queenie’s smile was pained, but she finally extricated her hand and pressed it to the no-maj’s cheek. “No, it’s alright, he’s kinda my boss. I’ll just be right back, okay?”

Her cooperation secured, Graves made his way past and through the door, giving them a few last seconds to reassure each other. He needed the extra time anyway; he was still learning the rhythm of the cane and when to shift his weight and where. His pace now was a far cry from the strides he used to command.

Though it was another long minute before she appeared, the click of Queenie’s heels was reasonably brisk as she rounded the corner. She visibly steeled herself when she caught sight of Graves waiting in the alley’s shadows, but then raised her head high and walked toward him with gratifying aplomb.

“Sir, I know what it looks like, but - “

“Do you?” he interrupted with a cant of his head. “I may not have had a photograph to put to the name, but Jacob Kowalski featured quite prominently in the reports - and the conclusion that he had been Obliviated. For everyone’s protection, including his own.”

She bit her lip, gaze dropping. “I - I know, Sir, I’m sorry. I just - we ain’t hurting anybody, we just talk - “

“ _Talk_ is what got us Rappaport’s Law in the first place!” he snapped.

She flinched, fingers tangling as her head dropped even lower, and he felt like a right heel as he struggled to reclaim the vaunted control he had once been so proud of. “This ... this is hardly subtle, Miss Goldstein,” he said wearily with a wave toward the back of the bakery. “All I did was simply decide to take a walk today and followed the crowds. I didn’t even know what he looked like, and I could still come to the obvious conclusion.”

“I just ... “ He could hear the tears in her voice, the way her breath hitched, the misery as she tried to find words and could only finish with, “I just missed him, Sir. I missed him ... terribly.”

There were often no happy endings. He had been an Auror and a director for long enough to know. Queenie’s was certainly not the first case of affection fallen afoul of Rappaport’s Law, and certainly wouldn’t be the last.

But there was also a burgeoning need in him, amidst all the inquisitions and bad memories and medical injunctions, for something that would run counter to the ugly expectations of the world. “Miss Goldstein, if you love him so much ... why stay here?”

There was a soft sniff and a discreet brush of a finger beneath her eyes. “I ... I thought about it. But Jacob’s so happy here ... it took a little while for word to spread, but his bakery’s beginning to do so well, now ... “

He thought of the way the no-maj had looked when he caught sight of her, as if he was seeing magic again for the very first time, and said without hesitation, “He would leave it all for you.”

Watery blue eyes darted up towards his face, and there was a flash of a tremulous, grateful smile before it twisted again with worry. “And there’s also Teenie ... I don’t want to leave her alone. For so long, we’ve only had each other. And her work means so much to her, she worked so hard to get reinstated - “

“You haven’t talked to her about this?”

“I know what she would say, Mr. Graves. We practically live in each other’s heads, you know,” she joked with a rough, hiccuping laugh, before sobering again. “I don’t want her to give up her dream for me. She said she would be an Auror since we were little girls, and nothing could shake her loose from it. I never had a dream ... it’s not fair if I get one handed to me, and then she offered to leave hers for me.”

Graves let the silence stretch for a beat or two, and then released his breath in a soft huff of laughter. “Is that all?”

Queenie’s head jerked up, and if it hadn’t been for the clear tracks of tears still on her cheeks, he might have laughed again at her look of outright confusion. “Sir?”

He shifted his weight off his aching right foot - winced at the answering ache in his left hip - and promptly shifted his weight right back with a frustrated sigh. “I’m not without connections in England,” he offered. “If your Jacob Kowalski would like to extend his operations or move his business outright ... I think we can manage something a sight easier than if he were to do so on his own.

“And as for your sister, Newton Scamander’s brother, Theseus Scamander, is a rather prominent and high-ranked Auror with the British Ministry of Magic. I imagine he could be depended on to put the right word in the right ears, if your sister would like a transfer. I’ll personally make sure she comes highly recommended from MACUSA - her recent demotion and any other demerits, I can reasonably blame on Grindelwald. Besides, I hear the British Auror program has been experiencing a recent downswing in qualified graduates; I’m not above rubbing their noses in that fact to get them to accept her application.”

Queenie’s mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, before she began tearing up again. “Really? You’d do all that for us?”

“You still have to work on getting Mr. Kowalski and your sister to agree,” he reminded.

“Is that all?” she parroted him, and at his rough chuckle, she smiled brilliantly and launched herself toward him with arms outspread.

He jerked away from the motion out of sheer reflex. When he stepped back with the wrong foot, his still-healing hip shrieked in protest, and he barely caught himself with the cane and a hand on the alley wall before he dumped himself completely on the ground.

Queenie had frozen, eyes wide in mortification, hands hovering and uncertain as she babbled, “Oh, I’m so sorry! Are you alright, should I call someone - “

“No, no it’s okay,” he panted, blinking back the pain and drawing himself up straight again with a bracing breath. “I was just - I’m not used to this yet,” he slapped the cane against the wall, more sharply than he had intended, his frustration underscored by the rap of wood on stone.

Queenie’s gaze had turned sympathetic and that particular brand of knowing that only legilimens ever sported, and even though he knew his Occlumency was still perfect - he had had more than enough practice - he still flushed to realize his excuse had been so transparent.

“If you don’t mind, Sir,” she said mildly, “I would like a hug.”

He stared. “You’re not fooling anyone,” he pointed out.

“Doesn’t make it any less true,” she chirped back.

He rolled his eyes. But with the return of her familiar, impish smile, and the tear-tracks now nearly gone, he couldn’t help himself as he shuffled forward a half-step and reached out gingerly with his free arm to circle her shoulders.

She didn’t allow him the polite distance, but pressed herself against him; a slim line of warmth against his front. When he began to tip his balance back, she deliberately rested her cheek against his shoulder, and his next breath came with the light floral scent of her hair. She was simply there, an undemanding presence, and his arm tightened around her unbidden.

It occurred to him that this was the first physical contact he had personally instigated with someone since his return.

“Aren’t you worried what Mr. Kowalski would think if he saw us?” he murmured instead of the protest he had prepared.

“I know what he thinks,” she said, “and if he were here, he would ask for a hug too.”


	2. The Second

**_Representative MacArthur:_ ** _ And his injuries? What of their progress? _

**_President Picquery:_ ** _ He’s been discharged. I’m told they’re very optimistic he can make a full recovery. _

**_Representative MacArthur:_ ** _ [contemplative sound] And what if he doesn’t? _

**_President Picquery:_ ** _ [pause] And what, exactly, do you mean by that? _

**_Representative MacArthur:_ ** _ Madam President, with all due respect, Percival Graves has done a fine job during his tenure, and he has sympathy on his side right now - injured in the line of duty, so to speak. Perhaps ... he should consider an early retirement on a high note? After all, what will follow could be politely termed a  _

“Sir?”

He flipped the folder closed - the front blank but for a handwritten line in the corner of,  _ For your eyes only S.P. _ \- and tapped a corner three times, triggering the tamper-proof charm. Immediately, the edges began to crumble, and within a blink or two, there was only a neat pile of ash on his desk, taking the transcript he had been reading along with it.

Tina fidgeted, eyes flicking down to the remnants and back up to his face. “I ... I could return later,” she offered, already edging one foot back across the open threshold of his office.

“No, no, it’s fine,” Percival waved the ash into the wastebasket and then motioned the door closed behind Tina. “Nothing I haven’t read twice already, and I asked for you to drop by for a reason. Take a seat.”

As she tucked herself into one of the two chairs, he crooked a finger, calling a short stack of prepared documents from a shelf. He could feel her eyes on him as he sorted through the files, making sure that all was in order, but admirably kept her tongue before he finally laced his hands over them and looked at her measuredly. “Auror Goldstein.”

“Sir,” she responded, automatically snapping to attention.

“It’s quite the furor you’ve caused the whole of MACUSA these past two weeks.”

Her mouth dropped open, and he could see the protests already rising in her eyes before she managed to swallow the first wave with a visible gulp, but couldn’t quite suppress the second. “Sir, may I point out that it was  _ Grindelwald _ who was the source of the trouble - “

Graves hummed noncommittally, leaning back in his chair. “But your dogged pursuit of Newt Scamander and his suitcase in an effort to somehow prove you should be reinstated ... “

“That’s not why at all!” she contested more heatedly, hands clenching on her knees, “and if I hadn’t found Newt, we would be in a  _ lot _ more trouble than just levels of ‘furor’ - “

“And going so far as bursting in on an ICW meeting ... “

Tina flushed, but it was difficult to tell if it came more from embarrassment or frustration. “Alright, maybe I shouldn’t have done that, but he was then able to identify the obscurus’ work and - “

“You repeatedly ignored direct advice, if not outright orders, to chase your instincts - “

“Which were right!” she burst out.

“ - which were right,” he finished at the same moment, and finally let his mouth twitch into a wry, lopsided smile as she blinked. “Knowing when to speak up and when to shut up, when to exercise some discretion, those things can be taught, up to a point. But one can’t teach good instincts. One can only hone what’s already there.”

Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she finally managed a small, uncertain, “Is that a compliment?”

One corner of his mouth quirked higher. “What do your instincts say?”

Her eyes flicked down to the documents he had yet to refer to, and she hesitated only one heartbeat longer before saying, “Queenie. She ... talked to me, earlier this week. About England. She said you had - ”

Before Tina could finish, he turned the first document around and set it before her. “A copy of your  _ complete  _ MACUSA file. Any copies you need to submit along with your application to the MoM will, of course, have to come sealed and certified from Records instead, but I thought I would give you  _ one  _ chance to review it.”

Her eyes flew up to meet his incredulously. He was gratified that he didn’t need to spell it out for her; he was uncomfortable enough as it was making the offer. While anyone could request to see their own file, only certain portions were made available to them, with certain reviews and marks sealed for the eyes of higher ranks only. He was going to let her have one chance to let him know if she was uncomfortable with anything she found in the file that would be given to the British; it was no guarantee he would actually change anything, but he could fudge certain details within limits, as he had already done in accordance with what he had promised Queenie. 

And if his job had taught him nothing else all these years, it was how to fudge along with the best of the representatives in Congress when they were trying to avoid being pinned down by the press.

Before Tina could find her voice, he slid the next item - a single, cream-colored sheet with elegant flourishes and calligraphy embossed in gold - atop the growing stack before her. “An invitation to an awards ceremony. You will be commended for your bravery and your decisive actions during the obscurus event and in the face of enemy activity. I’m told there will be a medal involved. There will be photographers.”

He continued with the paperwork she would need to begin an applications process to the MoM, the letters of recommendation which he had already taken the liberty to acquire for her, what she would have to file with MACUSA once she was accepted overseas, some tips on salary and benefits negotiation ...

“ ... and if you get any pushback at all, or even suspect that there are any unusual delays, please do not hesitate to let either Theseus Scamander or me know.”

He took a bit of secret enjoyment over the continued look of dumb astonishment on her face as he wrapped up, settling back and absently rubbing at the ache in his hip. A few more breaths, and then she finally seemed to wake up again, blinking and flattening her hands atop the stack of paper, making no effort to sort through it herself. “Sir ... you don’t even know if I want to leave.”

He lifted his brows. “There’s a little bird who informs me she is a reliable source of what goes on in your head,” he said soberly, “and she tells me she didn’t say a word to you until now because she knew what your response would be.”

Tina’s lip trembled until she caught it between her teeth, and her eyes dropped to the neatly typed lines pressed beneath her palms and fingers. “She’s right,” she husked. “You’re right. I ... can’t even begin to thank you enough.”

“Actually,” he said gently, “I believe that should be my line. Thank you for your service, Auror Goldstein. Your presence will be sorely missed.”

Her eyes had misted over, but as she pushed herself to her feet and stood at attention, her voice was firm and unwavering. “It has been an honor, Sir,” she declared, holding her hand out. “You helped bring me to where I am today. I will try to follow your example.”

The sentiment was unexpected. And he didn’t think it was completely deserved. But the fact that it had been unnecessary and yet wholly earnest touched him in a way that, even if it didn’t complete soothe, at least lessened the sting of the transcript’s contents considerably. Levering himself up, he ignored her intended handshake and limped around his desk.

“Safe journeys,” he said into yet another Goldstein’s hair as he pulled her into a hug, “and I look forward to hearing of your accomplishments in England.”


	3. The Third

If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought he was being haunted.

It was a particularly shy, petulant poltergeist. There were no flickers of unexplained movement in the corners of his vision, no flashes of light or eerie sounds. Just the sullen, brooding press of  _ something _ around the edges of his awareness. 

To be honest, if Graves hadn’t had his magical sense so sharpened by isolation and the sheer dread of Grindelwald’s visits during his captivity, he might not have detected even that much. As it was, he still half-wondered if it wasn’t simply leftover paranoia after a solid week of whirling at nothing but shadows, leaves, and pigeons, his wand’s handle warm from his constant grip.

He should have recognized that he only ever felt it when outdoors, during the journey between MACUSA and his apartment that the mediwitches insisted he carry out on foot. It happened only when he stood outside the powerful wards of the Woolworth building and the layers and layers of protections he had placed upon the home that Grindelwald, thankfully, hadn’t bothered to touch. He might have thought more of it, if he felt he still had something worth someone committing violence for; if he hadn’t been preoccupied by how best to spend the remnants of his rapidly dwindling political capital.

Grindelwald had caught him outside of home and MACUSA, all those weeks ago.

Now, the obscurus did too.

As he was swept off his feet, Graves’ first thought was,  _ thank Isoldes’ wand the ghost picked a late night and an abandoned street to finally make its move _ . His second was a desperate -  _ not the hip not the hip please not the hip _ \- just before he was slammed into the pitted brick siding of a closed corner deli.

He barely recognized the sound he made, eyes squeezed shut for a long, breathless moment; when it seemed as if the Cruciatus was digging deep, deep down into the very marrow of his bones again.

There was a grip biting into his throat. Even when the pain ebbed enough that his ribs could unlock, he struggled to gasp around the pressure. Squinting through reflexive tears, he pried at the cage around his neck with one hand while the other flung out a wave of pure will and magic - 

\- and watched it pass through the mirage of a young man and black smoke, making it waver and skip like a badly exposed wizarding photograph. A heartbeat later, the wall of force continued through a row of hedges opposite, shredding leaves and branches before spending itself on the brownstone wall behind in a cloud of dust and powdered brick.

_ “Mr. Graves,”  _ the obscurus hissed, voice as hollow and fractured as its host,  _ “do you like what you have made me, now?” _

There was nothing to pry off his throat. It was pure force pinning him, inches off the ground, scouring the exposed skin of his face and hands and neck as if it would flay him. “Barebone ... “ Graves wheezed. “Credence. It ... wasn’t me ... Grindelwald ... “

The obscurus leaned closer, the outlines of the head tilting with the habits of the body, even when Graves could see the dim, watery illumination of a distant streetlight right through it.  _ “You cannot fool me any longer. I have power, when you thought I had not.” _

“Not me ... “ Graves gathered all his strength, struggled past the pressure. “Not me. Used me. Used you. Used us both.”

_ “No! You do not get to shift the blame, all must pay for their wicked deeds - “ _

Graves had not had time to draw his wand before. A blessing, perhaps, because he surely would have dropped it like his cane when the ambush had been first sprung. But now the well-worn handle was in his hand, and from all reports, his Aurors had successfully blasted the obscurus apart once before ... 

“Not ... your enemy,” he coughed, and slid his wand out of its holster - to drop it, deliberately, the clatter of it loud beneath his feet.

The obscurus  _ contracted _ , startled, then  _ ballooned _ with indignant fury. For a moment, Graves couldn’t breathe at all, felt all his limbs pressed flat against the wall, felt his bones creak and his hip scream and his lips peel back while it felt like the skin over his cheeks were split - 

And then it all went away, all at once. It was not a long fall back to the ground, but he was nearly insensate and it was abrupt, and he crumpled into an awkward, ugly heap.

Half-toppled over like a drunkard, Graves could only suck air desperately through his teeth for a long moment. He could see one of his hands, half-curled upon the sidewalk, next to his bent knee, and didn’t care that he couldn’t see much else for the time being. But the world - and an obscurus - was not inclined to wait for him, and so when the scuffed toe of a dull black shoe edged into his field of view, he gathered his strength to raise his head.

Credence Barebone was ... more  _ solid _ . But also disturbingly  _ incomplete _ . The edges of him seemed just a little out of focus, while entire patches occasionally boiled off into shadowy wisps. His eyes, pale as the moon, seemed to be focused not so much  _ on _ Graves as on something  _ within _ , past all the masks and crude matter of the physical shell.

_ “Tell me the truth.” _

Graves pushed himself straight, but didn’t bother to rise any further. He tilted his head back to meet that disconcerting gaze ... and talked.

He talked about the betrayal and ambush. Of waking alone in a dark, dank corner chained and powerless. Of going hungry, thirsty, long enough to wonder if he had simply been left to die from some unknown grudge, before Grindelwald finally deigned to visit and revealed himself and Graves understood true dread.

He spoke of his fear, his desperation, his fury through lips skinned back from his teeth, revealed the vitriol he had dared not reveal - dared not  _ feel _ \- in all the official debriefs. His voice shook as he curled his fingers into his thighs in impotent rage, at how he was being forced ignominiously into retirement, inch by painful inch, without even the courtesy of a clean and open acknowledgment that it would be due to politics, rather than his own wish.

It didn’t matter what he said here, and so he said everything he couldn’t say before.

Graves did not know Credence Barebone, except via the reports of his Aurors. But when he had bargained for his life, he realized he had only spoken the truth - that they had both been used. And while the obscurus was undoubtedly a highly dangerous weapon - one that the president had outright ordered destroyed when it seemed out of control - Credence Barebone had come to him with the anger and hurt of a betrayed little boy.

Credence was all too human, with all the same foibles and frailties.

_ “Gellert Grindelwald ... “ _ the obscurus - Credence - whispered once Graves’ words had run dry. The boy’s head turned, gazing in a particular direction.  _ “He is being held at MACUSA, you say. In the Woolworth building.” _

Graves’ breath hitched, and a shock of adrenaline propelled him forward. He snatched at the boy’s trouser leg, and there was material there - his fingers caught on  _ something _ \- but just like the rest of Credence, it felt weirdly like it could vanish at a moment’s notice. “No - you can’t go there, they will destroy you - “

Credence whirled on him, more edges bleeding off into furious shadow.  _ “They tried once.” _

“If they see you,” he gritted out, struggling not to shrink back from the pressure building again, “if they know you survived the first attempt, they’ll make sure you don’t survive the second.” He shook his head when it began to feel like he couldn’t pull in a full breath again, sagged back against the rough brick. “You’re still in scraps - you can’t even get past my apartment’s personal wards. That’s why you’re here, not there. He’s not worth it.”

The boy suddenly crouched before him in a whirl of darkness; almost uncomfortably close. But there was an intimacy between them Graves couldn’t deny - in their like circumstances, in their treasonous exchange of whispers.  _ “I defeated you. You’re supposed to be their director, the strongest of them all.” _

Graves felt his lip curl, wry and self-deprecating. “As you can see,” he murmured with a wave at himself, “I am neither the strongest right now, nor their director for much longer. But our strength was never about relying on just the strongest of us - “ He reached out, impulsive, and laid a hand upon the boy’s shoulder. Credence froze, so tense, he seemed to vibrate in place. “Our strength lies in the bonds between us. What Grindelwald has never understood, is that the strongest will eventually fall, but even the weakest can help shore them up.”

The boy sneered.  _ “Just as they are shoring you up now?” _

Graves snorted, grimacing. “Well, it’s not a perfect system,” he grudgingly acknowledged. “But it’s brought us this far.” He gave the boy a light shake. “It doesn’t matter for me. I’ll resign, go quietly into retirement, maybe write a carefully redacted book or two while I age not-so-gracefully on the old family estate.” Not something he had decided yet, not something he had accepted, he had wanted to fight, but just like the truth binding Credence and him, this is perhaps something else that simply is and will be. “But you ... what do you want, revenge? On someone who wouldn’t understand that he deserved it? You would trade your life for that?”

_ “And what life do I have?” _ Credence snarled, holding up his hands and displaying the smoke that curled within their outlines. Though his voice was all snap and fury, his expression was despairing.  _ “Would you call this alive? Maybe I am already half-dead, and doing this would allow me to complete my journey to Hell - “ _

Graves used his grip to abruptly pull the boy in.

Credence yelped, toppled, and fell into him.

Graves winced when an elbow managed to feel all too sharp against his ribs despite the boy’s seeming half-materialized state, but tightened his embrace all the more when Credence’s shock wore off and he tried to push away. “Credence, I’m sorry I wasn’t able to help before, but I can help now. Your sister - hush, wait - your sister, we Obliviated, but this time, we made sure she was placed with a good family. They think she is their own. She will have a good life.

“Newton Scamander, he is a defender of those who have no voice to defend themselves. Even if he hadn’t already tried to save an obscurial once before, I’m certain you would fall into every single category that he would champion.”

The boy was trembling; shivering so badly, bits and pieces of him seemed to shake loose before he remembered to pull himself back together.  _ “I’m dangerous.” _

“Even if Mr. Scamander had not already acquitted himself admirably before a dark wizard, his older brother can be a force unto himself. There is nothing you have to fear, for yourself, or others, if both Scamanders take you under their wing.”

The shaking grew worse, and for a wild moment, Graves wondered if the boy would simply fly apart. But then a miserable whine emerged, and Credence melted against him, and Graves shifted his arm around the boy, feeling like he could finally draw his first unfettered breath in a long, long time.


	4. The Fourth

“Oh. That’s really quite impressive.”

Graves stared at the man standing upon his apartment’s threshold, nonplussed; particularly when Newt Scamander made a little motion towards his own face, as if he was afraid Graves wouldn’t understand he was referring to the scabs dotting Graves’ cheeks and forehead. 

He hadn’t even had a chance yet to tender a basic greeting after opening the door. “Yes,” Graves finally responded, made just as blunt by bemusement. “I’m quite aware.”

The gangly shoulders hunched just a little bit more, and Newt’s chin slanted unassumingly down. But the blue eyes were keen beneath the unruly fringe of ginger curls as the magizoologist pointed out, “You know, the pattern is rather reminiscent of an attack by - “

“ - won’t you come inside, please,” Graves interrupted, unceremoniously taking a hold of the man’s sleeve and giving it a swift tug while pivoting awkwardly on his crutch.

“Oh, of course, thank you ... ?” Newt stumbled in, briefcase bumping awkwardly into the doorframe before he cleared enough space for Graves to close the door firmly behind him. “Uh, if you’re in a hurry - “

“I’m not. I would just rather not have the upcoming conversation in the hallway, if you please,” Graves grunted, juggling his balance and the crutch he was still getting used to in order to slide his palm over the nearest wall, checking that the soundproofing charms and misdirection wards had zipped up seamlessly again. While he had acquired the apartment in the first place for its quiet, discreet neighbors, he didn’t think paranoia was completely out of the question in this particular instance.

“All of this,” Newt noted with a vague motion toward Graves in general, “is fairly recent.”

“Are you thinking of following your brother’s footsteps into the Auror corps?” Graves asked dryly as he limp-hobbled his way toward the more comfortable couches in the living area. “We could use observational skills like yours, as you’ve already proven recently. Tea? Coffee? Something stronger?”

“No, thank you,” Newt declined as he followed tentatively after. “To tell the truth, I’m not quite certain why I’m here. Tina said you had wanted - “

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take a little something, then,” Graves said as he lowered himself carefully into an armchair with a barely suppressed groan, leg stretched out before him. It took barely a thought and a flick of his fingers - he has had far too much practice as of late - to have a splash of his latest comfort poured into a tumbler and floating into his hand while he let the crutch fall carelessly beside him. 

“Should you not be in a ward instead?”

Graves arched a brow at the dubious look Newt gave his leg, but took a sip and let the initial bite mellow into pleasant heat before using his elbows to shrug himself into a more comfortable angle. “There is only so much they can do at a time, I’m told, without risking a mishap in the healing process. The original injury was mending, but unfortunately, I had an accident before it was fully healed. Once they’re certain that everything is back in the right place, they’ll be able to speed up the process considerably.”

“I’m very glad to hear that.” Newt’s gaze flitted over his face. “But they were unable to do anything about those?”

Graves swallowed a larger mouthful before smiling wry and crooked, feeling the thin scabs pull on his cheeks. “These linger due to the nature of the magic that caused them. They’ll just have to heal the old-fashioned way.”

Gaze fixed upon him, Newt took two slow steps sideways as if Graves were a creature easily spooked, and lowered himself carefully into the couch opposite. The case was set gently upon his lap. “Yet you’re still alive enough to heal.”

“I’m still alive enough to heal,” Graves confirmed with a droll tilt of his glass.

“How is he?”

Honestly surprised that Newt would choose to ask that first, but gratified that the magizoologist seemed as genuinely invested in his charges’ well-being as reports have made him seem, Graves set the tumbler aside. “Patchy,” he admitted delicately. “But he’s ... mostly put together. I honestly don’t know what to make of it, except that he seems comfortable enough, for now. If prone to alternating fits of anxiety and depression.” His lip curled derisively. “It’s been surprisingly agreeable, sharing space with someone who is prone to the same moods as me.”

Newt blinked, caught off guard by the dark joke, but then warily ignored it to rest one long-fingered hand upon the latches of his briefcase. “I can help him. If you let me.”

Graves’ brow wrinkled. “I would think that decision is up to him, rather than me. But my concern is that, even if you are, as far as we know, the foremost expert on the obscurus at the moment, I’m not certain how far of a step up it is when the standard is nearly complete and utter ignorance.”

Instead of affront, Newt smiled; seemingly abashed. “It’s at least one step. Just a few more, and I might even sound like I know what I’m talking about.”

Graves stared, and then he snorted, remembering all too well that the man had already run roughshod over MACUSA and Grindelwald both when it had suited him. “I’d wondered how the Scamander household could have produced such a meek mooncalf as gossip had made you out to be. I should have known that you would be the most dangerous of the lot ... nobody ever sees you coming, do they?”

Newt’s smile slid sideways in uncertainty. “I beg your pardon?”

Graves rolled his eyes. “Never mind. I gave him the second bedroom. The door to the right in the hall. I trust that, as an ‘expert’, you’ll know how not to end up in a similar state as me.”

“Oh, of course,” Newt said quickly as he unfolded himself from the couch. “I’ll do my best, Mr. Graves. Thank you.”

“Actually, before you rush off,” Graves said as he levered himself out of the armchair, “besides enlisting your aid in smuggling out a highly illegal entity, I wanted to thank  _ you _ as well.”

The man shrugged self-effacingly, giving his suitcase a light pat. “Oh, it’s nothing, I would do this for any - “

“No, you don’t understand.” Graves made one ignominious hop on his good leg to get within reach, and then solemnly took the magizoologist’s free hand, clasping it tight between his own. A deep breath, to impress the depth of what he was about to convey upon Newt, and then he stated, low and gruff, “Thank you. Whether you did it just for your creatures, or for the sake of wizardkind ... the end result was that you saved us all.” 

As he stared into bewildered blue eyes, he could feel the phantom chill of old, rancid fear trailing goosebumps over his skin at the thought of what could have been. Suddenly overwhelmed by the weight of the disaster they had just narrowly avoided, he pulled Newt into a rough embrace. “MACUSA,” he husked into the blue coat. “My Aurors. You saved them, when I could do nothing. And there is nothing I wouldn’t do to try and repay you for that. Remember it. The Graves name may not be at its brightest moment right now, but I’m not without resources. I swear on my wand and my mother’s grave, all that I own, all my power, will be at your beck and call should you ever have need.”

Newt had gone stiff as soon as arms had wrapped around him, but now slowly loosened; enough that he could give Graves’ shoulder a tentative pat. “Ah, thank you. That’s very kind of you to offer. And I sincerely hope I will never need to take you up on it.”

Feeling off-balance from more than just his bad hip, Graves nodded and then pulled back; not quite embarrassed by the show of emotion, but self-consciously tugging imaginary wrinkles from his vest as soon as he was upright.

Newt abruptly lit up as he raised a finger. “Oh, though, now that you mention it, there’s the matter of a colony of bogwhumpers which I could use some assistance in performing a - “

“Life or death,” Graves interrupted quickly. “Or when extreme mental, emotional, or physical trauma is likely to be incurred.”

Newt shifted his weight and hedged, “Perhaps the category of extreme mental or emotional trauma - “

“No.”

Newt sighed resignedly.


	5. The Fifth

Graves waited until the scratches on his face had healed to near-imperceptibility, until he had been graduated from the crutch back to the cane, before he bribed Seraphina’s two secretaries to clear her evening of appointments. Then, when it was time, he shrank a stack of carefully prepared folders into his pocket, took up his cane and a bottle of a West Coast sweet cider he knew she liked but would deny to her dying day, and made his way over to her office.

Clear of appointments did not necessarily mean clear of work; he was counting on the fact that Seraphina would take the opportunity of an evening to herself not to simply go home and relax, but to try and catch up on a backlog of assignments. Graves felt vaguely guilty that he will be adding to that workload for the next few months; his rationalization was that, after the transition, it will all go much easier for her.

Though she had undoubtedly heard the door to the president’s office open, Seraphina did not lift her head from the documents she was reviewing, forehead braced against her left palm as she wrote shorthand notes into the margins with incisive strokes of her pen.

“Knock knock,” he said quietly from the entryway.

She started upright, then pushed herself to her feet with a loud exhale, moving to round her desk. “I’m so sorry, Percival, I thought you were just Maggie or Daniel come back to - well, it couldn’t have been them, because they’ve left for the day. Honestly, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

He waved her back as he closed the door. “You were maybe thinking that MacArthur could choke on one of those canapes he loves so much and save us all the trouble of strangling him?”

Seraphina’s expression twisted in a complicated dance between disapproval and amusement before she finally settled on a resigned, “We should be so lucky. But it seems we’ve used up our allotment of luck lately surviving the Grindelwald mess. I don’t suppose that’s a bottle of Felix Felicis you have in your hand, there?”

“If it was, I would have already moved out to some tropical island somewhere. Have you seen the black market prices for the stuff?” he snorted, dampening the cane’s tap with a thought as he walked over. Seraphina solicitously turned one of the chairs in front of her desk for him with a wave of her hand.

“Well, since it’s not my birthday, we haven’t even hit Thanksgiving yet much less Christmas, and our traditional anniversary drink for the sound trouncing we gave Senator Devonshire is in April, to what occasion would be the - “ She paused when he un-shrank the stack of folders from his pocket and let them thump down onto the corner of her desk. “Ah. A bribe,” she deadpanned.

“Oh, Sera, nothing so plebeian,” he drawled as he motioned over two glasses from her cabinet and eased himself into the chair. “This is simply a consolation prize.”

“Consolation prize?” she echoed disbelievingly as she collapsed into her own seat. “And what would the grand prize have been, a ball and chain?”

He laughed, had a ready retort on the tip of his tongue, when he noticed the look she was giving him and rapidly sobered. “Sera?”

“Hm?” she blinked, and he was beginning to feel genuine concern by this point because he had never seen her so scattered before. But then she shook herself and sagged back in her seat, gaze falling to the papers spread before her. “I’m sorry, Percival, I just ... for a moment, I wondered when the last time I had heard you laugh was.”

He barely suppressed a grimace. “Sera, we’ve been over this. I hope you’re not still hung up on not having noticed - “

“No,” she said waspishly, holding up a hand, “just let me wallow for a moment, will you?”

“No, I won’t,” he retorted, ignoring her peeved glare as he chilled the bottle with a word and went about pouring a share for them both. “We were all working overtime and distracted by the damage the obscurus was causing by that point - “

“It’s no excuse - “ 

“Sera.” He waited until he had her full attention, and then extended one of the half-filled glasses to her. “Do you trust me?”

“Of course,” she said immediately, accepting the offering while never breaking his gaze. “Absolutely.”

“Then let that be the measure of your trust,” he said solemnly, “that you never thought to question anything I said or did. Ever.”

She sucked in a quick breath and closed her eyes. This time, he gave her the time she needed, settling back and sipping lightly at the cider. “That sort of blind trust made us terribly vulnerable,” she finally bit out, but couldn’t quite hide the slight tremble of her voice.

“It did,” he agreed. “But it’s also terribly flattering.”

A scoffing sound, a bittersweet twist of her mouth, and then Seraphina gathered herself together again in the space of a single, deep breath. Graves found himself watching the process with a faint wistfulness - it was not often that Seraphina let the official mask slip. Watching her reacquire it was always a shame, but it also made him appreciate her strength - and the fact that she had managed to maintain a core separate from the office, even after all these years. 

He had been nowhere near as successful.

“Since we’ll have to justify the cost of this bottle somehow - “ he began, flicking the topmost folder toward her.

“Oh, are we writing this off onto the presidential expense sheets now, Director Graves? You know it defeats the purpose of a bribe - oh, I beg your pardon, a ‘gift’ - if you simply put it on my budget.” She turned the bottle to read the label. “And, honestly, a Stayman Winesap?”

“I like it,” he claimed with an arch of a brow, daring her to call him on it.

It was almost criminally easy after that to settle into their usual banter. As if he had never left. When he allowed himself to slouch back in his seat as he liked, his hip didn’t even ache. The cider was sweeter than he preferred, but it still left a pleasant taste on his tongue and made him feel warm and relaxed. He reminded himself to savor the moment as the pile of folders shrank between them.

“I’ve missed this,” Seraphina murmured while she jotted out a quick note to add to the colony of mice memos waiting in a corner, ready to be sent off after a final review at the end of their impromptu work session.

Graves hummed noncommittally as he reviewed his personal notes on the next folder.

“We should do this again.”

“If you wish,” he said neutrally, extending the file once she had put her pen down.

“I do.” She took the papers, but this time didn’t drop her eyes, holding his gaze as she said measuredly, “But you’re not going to give us the chance to do so, are you?” 

He arched a brow, but before he could try and scrape up a response, she motioned toward the neat stacks of folders they had made. “I can see the pattern, Percival. You’re cleaning house.”

His mouth twitched. “I suppose there was a reason you entered the House of the Horned Serpent.” She leveled an arch look upon him, and he dropped his gaze with a sigh. “My time in MACUSA is over, Sera.”

He could practically see the steel suddenly bracing her spine. “If this is about what MacArthur said, I didn’t give you that transcript to tell you it’s over, I gave it to you so you could  _ prepare _ \- “

“You know it’s more than just MacArthur,” he rubbed a hand over his face wearily. “If it was just him, fine, we can deal with it, but this is about the loss of trust.”

A flash of hurt broke through her incipient fury. “We trust you, Percival! Did I not just say earlier that you had my - “

“Not in me. In yourselves.” Seraphina stalled, blinking. “You don’t trust yourselves anymore.” 

She swallowed; a dry click of her throat.

He sighed. “The majority of my department can’t even meet my eyes. Right now, I’m less effective than if you even appointed a complete stranger.”

“Just give them time - “

“Sera, I can’t give anyone forgiveness if they aren’t willing to forgive themselves.”

He had never seen her so shaken by so simple a statement. “Be that as it may,” she rallied valiantly, “to remove yourself because of our failing is ridiculous.”

“The proper thing,” he admitted, “would be to stay and help rebuild it. But do we have that luxury and time? 

“We have just had the darkest wizard of our age in the heart of MACUSA. For weeks. Never mind that completely overhauling our internal security will take months just on its own, or that we now have to assume all of MACUSA’s secrets have been put at risk. The only reason this hasn’t become a bigger disaster than Dorcus Twelvetrees is that his agenda hadn’t included revealing wizardkind to the no-majs ... yet.

“We’ve had to Obliviate nearly a week’s worth of memories from the entire city, a scale we’ve never had to deal with before, not to mention clearing all the no-maj publications, which are even more widespread now than in Rappaport’s time. We’ll be trying to smooth over the fallout from this for months. 

“In the meantime, Aurors are now second-guessing their judgment. Magical crime is already on the rise as parties catch wind of the breach in our security and preoccupation with the clean-up. The populace - and Congress - is losing faith that we can even police our own, much less others.

“MACUSA can’t afford an adjustment period,” he concluded. “And I won’t let you put her in danger over sentiment for me.”

He had only ever seen Seraphina cry twice. Once, at her mother’s grave; once, when she had toasted her sister’s memory and vowed to take the presidential office. Now, there was a dangerous sheen to her eyes that made his stomach twist with a sort of pained warmth.

Seraphina only ever cried over family. 

“I can fix this, Percival,” she whispered fiercely when he pushed himself to his feet. “It won’t be pretty, but you know I can turn this around.” Her head tilted back to follow him as he rounded the desk. “We managed to weather Devonshire, the Ochagna affair, the damned Redmond Revolt - don’t you  _ dare  _ surrender - !”

He pulled her up against him, wrapping his arms around her as tight as he dared. “Sera, Sera ... " he murmured, “I’m not surrendering, just ... strategically retreating. It’ll be alright - “

“I don’t want it to be alright!”

His heart did a little flip in his chest, and he tightened his arms around her just a little bit more. “It will be, but only because you will make it so. You were always the stronger of us two.”

Her hands, caught between them, were clenched in the lapels of his jacket. The thick fabric twisted, and she growled, “It’s not ... it’s not ... “

And when he realized what she was trying to say, the heartache twisted just a little too tight and snapped, taking the tension with it. “You can’t even bring yourself to say the word!” he laughed outright.

She shoved against his chest, and he let her go enough so that she could glare at him. “We didn’t do what we did because the world was ... was  _ fair _ !” She spat the word out like it was a cherry pit.

The laugh had been unexpected, but it had eased something inside like a pressure valve. He smiled easily as he brushed a thin line of moisture from the edge of her eye. “No. We did it precisely because it  _ wasn’t _ . And we thought we could make it a little bit better.”

“Bastard,” she growled, but her anger was melting into something heavier, and he could only give her shoulder one last squeeze before her back was straightening once more, head held high. 

She picked up the remaining folders and fanned through them. Plucking out the last one, she glared at its contents so viciously, he had some real concern that it might actually catch on fire.

His letter of resignation.

“Is this what you want?” she asked.

“I think I already listed half a dozen reasons - “

“Is this what _you_ _want_?” she asked again, gaze sharp.

A long breath, and he said, “Yes.”

“You’re a liar.”

This time, it was his turn to square his shoulders and give her a measured look in return. “Maybe. If it had been a week ago. Not now.”

Her shoulders did not slump. This was the president he faced now. But there was disappointment and defeat in the carefully cultivated blandness of her expression as she picked up her pen, considered the space at the bottom of the letter, then signed her name to it.

As soon as her pen cleared the paper, the presidential seal branded itself into the document beneath her signature.

“As you wished,” she said, watching the last tendrils of umber flame wisp away, “Mr. Graves.”

“Thank you,” he answered quietly, “Madam President.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooooo, home stretch! Also, boy Picquery and Graves are chatty with each other. I honestly thought this was going to be the shortest, most straightforward chapter of the bunch, but hey who knew they had so much to say to each other.


	6. The One

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like ... whoa. Uhm, happy holidays everyone? :D But hey, now it's finally complete! \o/
> 
> <3 Thank you thank you to everyone who has kudos'ed and commented and read this over and over again. In the times when I wasn't able to be creative and feeling frustrated by all the adult stuff I haveta do, it's been really great to see people enjoying what I have made.

It was one month for Graves to tidy up loose ends as best he could for his successor; then he closed the door for the last time on an emptied office.

It was one week for a stone-faced Seraphina to officially announce Graves’ replacement, a dozen politely smiling congressional representatives lined up behind her.

It was one day for all the officials to gather before the press in grand style, thanking Graves for his service, and for him to deliver a speech that he couldn’t remember a single syllable of afterward.

It was one hour behind closed doors for Graves to collect all of MACUSA’s secrets from his head into a single, fragile strand, pooled at the bottom of a bottle that was firmly stoppered and whisked away.

It was one lonely minute, as he was making his slow, limping way home, that he came to the realization the hollow feeling inside had not come just from the release of classified information. That it had been there for a long time now.

Coming to an abrupt stop, he barely registered the bump of a pedestrian who had not dodged quickly enough. When the man cursed and sidestepped him, he could only stare after, until the man was quickly lost amidst a sea of neutral brown, gray, and black coats.

On either side of him, no-majs and perhaps an occasional camouflaged witch or wizard streamed past industriously. No one spoke, but they still seemed a part of some secret communion in their singular focus upon life’s errands.

It was only Graves who stood still, alone, unmoored from purpose.

He cut clumsily across the foot traffic toward the nearest alleyway. Gave only the most perfunctory of checks for witnesses before he apparated home. Performed his nightly routine out of sheer habit though it was not yet even eight, and in the dark, under the cover of his blankets, breathed around that empty sensation and told himself that it would take time, but he would get over it. Just give it some time.

* * *

He really should be visiting the estate; see how much work was needed to move back onto the grounds.

He really should be sorting through the apartment; try to decide if it was worth the trouble of subletting, or simply letting go completely.

He really should be responding to the letters that have been piling up into obsessively neat but ever-more-precarious stacks; at least answer those with more official requests even if he couldn’t find the energy to placate the well-wishers.

But he left the estate unvisited, his apartment unsorted, the letters unopened as he spent his time … lounging. That was what one did during retirement, wasn’t it? Took a well-deserved break to simply … stay at home, because one could. Do nothing, because one could. 

Thought not of empty futures or bitter pasts … thought of nothing at all. Because one could.

* * *

“Does this hurt? How about when I do this? And this?”

The mediwitch – Dana, or Denise, or maybe Danita – leaned back and gave him an unimpressed look over her spectacles. He knew it was his half-shrugs that had earned him that expression in the first place, but, haplessly, he could only shrug again when he couldn’t find enough energy to dig up another response.

“Sir, I can’t help you if you’re not willing to work with me.“

“I don’t know what answers you want.”

Her lips pursed unflatteringly. “This isn’t a quiz that you have to guess the correct answers to, Mr. Graves.” Sighing, she leaned back in the seat she had dragged across his living room to crowd up against the couch he lay half-propped on, his bad leg on the edge. “You’ve been doing your exercises?”

He started to shrug, but at her sharply narrowed look, he managed a verbal, “Generally.”

“Eating? Drinking your potions?”

He nodded duly. The Goldstein sisters had filled his larder just before they had departed American shores over a week ago. Perhaps it was his relative inactivity, but his appetite just hadn’t been the same lately, and what they had stocked him with could easily last him a good month at his current rate.

“And you’ve been resting?”

Another nod. Most mornings now, he simply laid in bed after waking too early, with nothing to call him from it but unable to sleep longer. It was more consecutive days of physical rest than he had been getting in years. 

Could one overdose on rest? Sometimes it felt like he could, limbs feeling heavy and uncoordinated when he finally pushed himself to rise.

But still, Dana-or-Denise looked even more unhappy, until he was pricked enough by irritation to ask, “What? Haven’t I been the model patient, for once?”

She widened her eyes in feigned incredulity and gave a pointed look around the room. “Model enough to necessitate a house call?”

He eased his leg down and levered himself up, retorting, “I forgot the one appointment – “

“Two appointments.”

“I forgot one and rescheduled the other,” he corrected sharply, hands braced on either side of himself and shoulders hunched, hating the defensive posture but unable to help himself.

“And would you have rescheduled or forgotten a third time if I hadn’t made it a house call instead?”

“I suppose we’ll never know unless you’ve got a time turner in your bag of tools, will we?” he snapped. He felt a pang when she stiffened; he knew she was trying to help. But suddenly he felt exhausted by the dance of social expectations and niceties, something he had not had to deal with for … how long, now? There was a dull sense of panic struggling to breach an increasingly heavy blanket of numbness, and he was suddenly desperate to get rid of her before it managed to batter its way through. “Are you finished with the physical examination, Madam?”

Her brows knit. “Yes, but Mr. Graves, I – “

“Then I hope you’ll forgive me for not seeing you out.” He waved a hand over his bad hip. “Seeing as how I am currently invalided.”

Lips pinched, she eventually picked up her bag without a word, gave him a curt nod, and departed.

He sagged back against the cushions as soon as he heard the door close. A flick of one hand engaged the locks and wards surrounding it, another summoned a glass filled just short of the brim with molten amber. With the scent thick on his tongue, he studiously tried to match his physical state with the one inside.

* * *

The definitely-Denise had been more tenacious than he had given her credit for. The next set of prescribed potions had been marked as pick-up only, and out of petty spite, he ignored it after his current supply ran out until the ache and itch of the knitting bones was too much for him to stand.

It was a properly miserable day when he was finally forced to go pick up the scrip; wet and cold and biting into his hip. It didn’t even have the benefit of clearing the streets. New Yorkers scurried past with even more fervently lowered heads than usual, but the streets were no less busy than any other day in the city.

When Graves was finally home again, he directed a glass to be filled almost before he had shaken off his coat. The gray and the wet, the press of bodies and the grim reminder of how out of touch he was with the world now, had all conspired to put him on an edge he hadn’t experienced in a long time.

Everything felt glass-sharp; his skin too sensitive, as if it had been scrubbed raw. Eyeing the bag of clinking bottles he had set on the kitchen table, he abruptly felt exhausted by even the thought of sorting them out and instead took two swallows of imported whiskey, limp-shuffling his way into the living area.

He had downed the numbing potion right at the apothecary, which meant it should be kicking in any moment now. A fire would help to further warm and loosen the fierce ache in his hip while the whiskey would warm his belly, and then he could just let himself drift off and that would be another few hours dealt with. He just had to get himself as far as the couch - 

\- the couch that had a pair of socked feet hanging over the armrest.

The ensuing explosion of raw magic shattered wood and shredded cloth and stuffing into a snowfall of confetti. It was only years of battle-honed reflexes that saved Theseus from the hammer-blows that followed, and by the time Graves could see past his trembling hand and the shimmer of panic that washed his home into an alien smear of _breached invaded despoiled_ the British auror was shouting from behind the bright shell of a protego, “Graves! Graves, you daft bastard, wake up, it’s me!”

Graves blinked and blinked again, wondered why his vision continued to waver until his breath caught in a too-dry throat and he realized he had been dragging in great gasps of air the whole time. Coughing and light-headed from adrenaline and too much oxygen, he just barely summoned his cane back to hand before he embarrassed himself further by falling over. “Theseus,” he rasped, dragging a shaking hand over his face and then scraping it through his hair. “What the hell?”

“Should be asking you that,” the man snapped as he slowly picked himself up off the floor, wild-eyed, looking just as shaky while the white fluff of couch stuffing slowly settled over his hair and shoulders like snow. “‘Drop in on him,’ she said. ‘I’m sure he’ll be happy to see a friendly face,’ she said. If this is the welcome friends get nowadays, next time I’d just as soon send an owl. Or pigeon. Whatever it is that you Yanks use.”

“Who said?” Graves asked as he waved the worst of the mess to the edges of the room with an irritable snap of his wrist. The wet, shattered mess of the glass at his feet reformed itself, pristine but empty. With its comforting weight back in his hand, he didn’t bother refilling it yet, limping to the nearest intact armchair and not caring to hide how he sagged into it.

“Your president,” Theseus said, rolling his shoulders with an exaggerated grimace and brushing off his sleeves.

“You have only yourself to blame, breaking into my apartment - “

“Breaking in!” Theseus sputtered. “You’re the one who keyed me into the flat’s wards! What’s the use of that if I wasn’t supposed to let myself in?”

Graves knew he was being unreasonable, but he had received a fright, and, to be honest, his own reaction had also been a little frightening in turn. “And you couldn’t have sent a note ahead of time?”

“I did! Several of them! And they’re all there along with all your other correspondence from half the Eastern Seaboard - “

“Don’t exagg - “ Graves stiffened. “You went through my letters?”

Theseus grimaced, his long, lanky frame sinking in a little on itself. “I didn’t open anything, just made sure you got what I’d sent. I hadn’t heard from you. Your president hadn’t heard from you. Newt and the Goldsteins hadn’t heard - “

“Everyone’s been on my back for years to take it easy and now something’s wrong if I actually do what they say?” A curt gesture summoned a bottle from the thankfully undamaged shelves by the fireplace.

“Of course something’s wrong if you’re taking it easy! How many drinks have you been going through each day?”

Graves stared, frozen in the act of pouring. “I beg your pardon?”

“And how many times have you dosed yourself with that Dreamless Draught that you Americans hand out left and right? All those empty potions bottles by your bed tell - “

Glass clinked sharply as his hand jerked before he set the bottle down with a thump. “Are you mad - “

“Percival,” Theseus spread his hands, with that half-pained expression he always got when he knew he had misstepped, but earnestness or principle wouldn’t let him back down. “You’ve taken care of everyone, of MACUSA, all these years. Won’t you let us have the chance to return the favor, for once?”

Graves surged out of his chair. Gritted his teeth against the jagged glass feel of his hip, at how _fragile_ all of him felt. “I don’t need to be _taken care of_ like some invalid! Get out!”

Theseus growled and pulled at his hair in frustration. “Shite, look, I’m sorry, this has gone all wrong - “

_“Get out!”_

Theseus winced, held his hands up placatingly like his brother would to some wild, manic animal, and Graves felt something ugly build in his chest. It must have shown on his face, because Theseus blinked and then abruptly disapparated right out of the room.

Graves snarled and destroyed the shelves of liquor with one slash of his hand.

* * *

A half hour later he was painstakingly recreating shelves and bottles even if all the contents were ruined, nursing the last bit of drink in the apartment, wondering why it had taken Theseus - undoubtedly courageous, charismatic, but ultimately as socially-inept-as-his-little-brother Theseus - to make him acknowledge the shambles of what his life had become.

* * *

The Queensboro Bridge was a marvelous latticework of metal. No-majs, who could not fly or apparate on their own, nevertheless seemed determined to elevate themselves to where they were most vulnerable; building ever higher, ever farther, simply for their whimsy or convenience.

Perched atop one of the two central spires, Graves swayed easily with the cutting wind that whistled through the iron trusses. Half an hour ago, he gave in to the need for a warming charm in spite of the clear skies overhead, the autumn sun too pale and anemic to convey much warmth. Eyes squinted, he had watched ferries and boats stream by underneath, automobiles and pedestrians crossing underfoot, even the occasional gull drifting alongside, its glossy black eye angled toward him before it would swoop away with a lazy dip of its wings.

Theseus had the courtesy to scuff a shoe as warning of his presence before he commented, “You’re not thinking of jumping, are you?”

“Not today,” Graves answered without taking his eyes off the white-combed waters.

“That’s not as reassuring as you might think,” the Auror muttered, drawing up alongside him with shoulders hunched against the wind, collar fluttering against his cheek.

“It’s the truth. Might be all I have left to give these days.” Graves nodded toward the horizon, where the fork of the Harlem River met the East River. “Twenty-two years ago,” he said before Theseus had a chance to retort, “right around there, the _PS General Slocum_ caught fire. The steamboat had nearly fourteen-hundred bodies aboard, mostly women and children. I had been just a year or two past my graduation; hadn’t yet decided to take up the family mantle yet.”

“Get off,” Theseus played at shock, a hand pressed against his breast. “You weren’t born with a bloody badge on your chest?”

Graves snorted. At another time, he might have quipped back about not needing to make everything a production. But the listless apathy that had crept insidiously through every crack in his life strangled the response he might have given, until Theseus prompted with a disconcerted air, “Hey … so, go on about your boat.”

Shaking himself, Graves struggled to find the impetus to continue. “The Slocum … its safety systems were inadequate. It was ill-maintained and lit up like a lamp. The captain turned it into the river rather than attempt to ground it; he claimed that he had been trying to keep the flames from spreading to shore. By the time it sank by North Brother Island, just off the Bronx shore, only 321 people were rescued. Over one-thousand people died, the most that New York has ever lost in a single event.”

A soft hiss of horror, and then came Theseus’ quiet, “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Graves shrugged. “But that was my reason. Seraphina had her own, from before she left Savannah, but the Slocum was mine. They were no-majs, but they left bodies behind just the same, half of them children … hundreds of them, drowned in the river.” Even worse had been the screams of those who had burned. He shuddered. “But it was broad daylight, emergency crews and witnesses everywhere. We weren’t allowed to do anything … not with magic.” He had tried, with his own two hands, just as if he had been any other no-maj. But it hadn’t been anywhere near enough.

Theseus grimaced, then tentatively reached out to touch his elbow. “Percival … I’m sorry, those were awful circumstances. I don’t know how much we would’ve been able to do even if it were England.”

“But you would have been allowed to try.” When Theseus fidgeted, visibly struggling to find something appropriate to say, Graves turned to face him. “Rappaport’s Law _will_ be repealed one day. But, apparently, not in my time.”

And, of all things, what took him out of the game was exactly what fed its foundations - fear. All those years of political maneuvering, of clawing his way up the ladder, of currying favors and debts … undone in the space of a few months.

“Hey … still not thinking of jumping, right?”

Graves, startled from his increasingly despairing thoughts, could only meet Theseus’ worried gaze with a sickly smile. “Not right now.”

But this time, instead of wincing, Theseus’ expression became set and stubborn. “Not ever. Don’t think I couldn’t see what you’ve been doing - I think it’s time you took some of your own advice.”

Genuinely baffled, Graves said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’ve been passing my name around like - like it’s the bloody Prophet! You’ve just about sent all your pet projects over to England - maybe it’s time you considered doing the same with yourself.”

That managed to startle a splutter of laughter out of Graves before he stopped and stared. “You can’t be serious. Why would I do that?”

“Because MACUSA doesn’t bloody deserve you! They’ve rolled you out like you’re some toothless dog just because they don’t want to catch Grindelwald’s fleas!”

A disbelieving pause, and then Graves deadpanned, “Yes. That’s it exactly. Thank you, that’s all very flattering.”

Theseus rolled his eyes and clapped both hands on Graves’ shoulders, giving him a little shake as punctuation. “Look, I get it, Newt’s the poet of the family. What I’m trying to say is, you act like you’re all used up and you’ve got nothing left to give. I’m saying that it’s bollocks. And if MACUSA isn’t going to let you show them what’s what, then the Ministry of Magic’s going to be more than happy to show them up for the idiots they are.”

Reluctantly, Graves felt a corner of his mouth twitch upwards. “Even if you have to shove it down the ministry’s collective throats?”

“ _Especially_ if I get to shove it down their collective throats. If I’m lucky, they’ll even choke on it.” Graves snorted, and Theseus’ smirk turned soft and wistful. “Come on, Perce. It’ll be like old times. Except we’ll have more power to do what needs to be done, and only a few more responsibilities.”

It … spoke to him. Graves looked away, conflicted. All this time, the way everyone had tried to tell him to take a break, to _rest_ … it had made him feel as if he had no use anymore. He knew they meant well, that they felt he _deserved_ it … but he wasn’t that sort of man. It said something, that Theseus’ offer of more work had sparked an interest in him that nothing else had done in the last few months.

But it meant leaving America behind. 

He looked out over the East River, at the bustle of life and commerce upon its banks, and across to the hazy towers of Manhattan’s skyscrapers, windows glittering in the sunlight. The Woolworth building was too far to see from here, but he still felt the pull of it like iron to a lodestone.

Ostensibly, he was the one who had been rejected. But now that he was considering the option of leaving … it felt as if he was the one betraying something.

“Hey,” Theseus drew his attention back with a rough squeeze, “I know it’s a lot. Why don’t you come for a visit first? You don’t have to decide on the spot. Call it a holiday.”

“A holiday,” Graves echoed skeptically. “In London.”

“Shut up, London’s better than your smelly New York, most of our pubs are older than your country,” Theseus cuffed him. “Meet me at the apparition point near Dock 23, Friday, at noon. I’ll have a portkey ready.”

Four days away. Graves took a deep breath, then nodded. “Fine. Friday. At noon.”

* * *

Seraphina knew, when she saw him. 

He knew, when he finally gathered enough courage to see her.

But still, she waited through his apologies for not having responded earlier, went through the established routines of old friends visiting, until conversation had wound down to a weary but not wholly awkward pause before she settled a too-direct gaze upon him. “You’re not coming back.”

He slumped in on himself. “I’m not coming back,” he agreed miserably.

“Oh, Percival,” she stood, laying an immaculately manicured hand upon his shoulder. “The shame should be ours. All I ask is that you remember to write, and prove to MACUSA what an embarrassment it was to have let you go.”

* * *

Percival Graves, former director of Magical Security, former head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, was not a person known for ambivalence. Theseus had known him well enough to crack a door open to temptation; well enough to know that once Graves decided to take that first step through, the rest of him would follow.

So as the local clocks were showing a few minutes shy of noon-sharp, Graves appeared in the shadow of a warehouse. Not quite at the designated apparition point, but he felt he needed this last walk.

He was finally without his cane. He still had a bit of a limp, and Denise was uncertain if it would dog him for the rest of his days, but at this moment all he cared was that he did not need to watchdog every step in these last few hundred feet on American soil.

He had a week’s worth of clothes and necessities reduced into one pocket and the rest of his apartment was neatly packed into crates, destined for either the Graves estate or England depending on what accommodations he settled on. He had answered as many of the backlog of letters as he could, and the rest were carefully tied up and reduced into his other pocket.

He had eschewed personal goodbyes for the moment, save for the visit to Seraphina. She had already assured him a portkey would be authorized for his use whenever he wanted to visit.

It was not such a bad day to be leaving. The day was overcast, but didn’t look like it would rain. The air was thin and chilled, but smelled fresh off the ocean. The distant sounds of no-maj industry echoed dully through the artificial canyons created by warehouses and cargo. 

And then he rounded the last corner that would put him within sight of Dock 23, and Graves faltered to a stop.

Before him stood a large crowd of people. But as he began to pick out the closest faces, he realized they were not just random strangers.

Jenny Thompson, one of the case secretaries. Michael McRory, a junior Auror. Danny Iveldson, one of Graves’ generation. Cary Smith, part of research …

They were all aurors and supporting staff. Everyone who was in his departments. A sea of long, dark coats and fedoras - all turning to face him in an expanding ripple, the low buzz of idle chatter dying down.

“What … “ He swallowed in a suddenly dry throat. “What are you all doing here?”

Stephen Jennings, a rising star whom Graves had been pleased to promote to senior status not too long ago, touched the brim of his hat with a solemn, respectful air. “We heard you were leaving, Boss. We wanted to give you a proper send-off.”

Graves’ mouth worked, but he couldn’t find the words. Instead, he was drawn inexorably forward as the first line of people moved aside with a murmured, “Sir,” or, “Boss,” and the rest behind them followed, parting like the Red Sea.

There was an odd buzz beneath his skin; not quite nervousness, not quite anticipation. As director and head, he had been at the center of his fair share of attention - many times of the unpleasant variety - but it had never been composed purely of those he had worked with, those whom he trusted and respected. It was strange to have their concentrated focus, with no speech prepared, no purpose, except - they wished him well.

“Wait … “ he finally thought to protest, turning to find that the crowd had closed behind him so that he stood surrounded. “You shouldn’t all be here … Daniels!” he barked, finally picking out one particular face. “I haven’t seen you in the light of day in three years! What are you doing here? What are you _all_ doing here? Who’s covering your stations while you’re all lollygagging about on the docks?”

A smattering of chuckles that had started with his razzing of the night shift broke into outright laughter by the time he got to the general dress-down. Bodies shifted and moved aside, eventually revealing Seraphina standing regal as ever next to a hip-shot Theseus, who had one hand tucked in a pocket as if he had all the time in the world.

Which he did. Around Seraphina’s neck hung a time turner.

“Madam President … “ Graves began in an aggrieved tone.

She arched one finely drawn brow. “What’s the point of being president if I’m not allowed to put the tools of this fine institution to good use when there’s a need? And before you complain, there is not a single soul here who would protest that there was not a need, or that this is not a good use of it.”

Theseus shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “I tried to tell her that it wouldn’t be appreciated, but you and I were both outvoted. That's how you do things here in this baby democracy of yours isn't it, listening to the voice of the plebs and all?”

“I … “ Graves looked around helplessly at all the smiling faces. Daisy Dunham, part of the Investigative Team. James King, her partner. Bradley Kearns, who possessed more heart than skill, but had the gumption to try over and over again until he succeeded. Graves could put a name to them all. “I don’t know what to say.”

“I think there’s already been enough said, aight, lads and ladies?” O’Hearn called out, brash as always. “How ‘bout a proper cheer to send off our director?”

Graves winced at the explosion of voices that responded, echoes rolling back from wood and concrete like thunder. But he could feel the smile that strained at the edges of his face, and didn’t flinch when Theseus’ long arms engulfed him.

“Time for a new adventure, eh, Perce?” Theseus shouted by his ear as he felt the portkey’s tug behind his navel.

A new adventure. That sounded like something worth looking forward to. “Try to keep up!” he shouted back as New York blurred into a kaleidoscope of brilliant colors and fell away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One statistic said that the only event to top the General Slocum's loss in lives in NY was the Twin Towers. As the majority of Little Germany had been on the steamboat at the time, its loss wiped out the neighborhood, the few remaining residents moving away to other neighborhoods.
> 
> The Robert F Kennedy segment of the Triborough bridge would've been a better viewpoint for the Slocum's travails and ultimate demise, but the bridge wouldn't have been built until after 1930.


End file.
